Mom Zone Mysteries 02 Staying Home Is a Killer Read Free

seen earlier was caught in the hall and stood against the wall with their posture sharp and gazes fixed in middle distance, except for Rory. He adjusted his round glasses and checked his cell phone. His stance was sloppy.
    They made an interesting group with the two shorter men, Rory and Aaron bracketing Zeke, who was over six feet tall. Rory and Aaron both were shorter and had blond hair, but everything about Rory was plump and robust from his barrel chest to his thick, wavy gold hair. Aaron, on the other hand, with his skinny build, beige hair, and narrow face, looked reedy and water-colored as he stood stiffly at attention. Zeke seemed poised to sprint out of there when they gave the all-clear, Rory slouched lazily, and Aaron stood so stiffly he looked like he was carved from marble.
    An entourage strode down the hall with an older craggy-faced man in the lead. A group of people, their shoulders liberally sprinkled with eagles and stars, followed him. Lounging against the wall, Rory whispered something to Zeke as the DVs passed and Zeke fought to keep a straight face until the DVs entered the Orderly Room.
    Someone barked, “At ease,” over the intercom and everyone came to life.
    “Who was that?” I asked Mitch.
    “Bedford, the wing commander, giving some generals a tour.”
    “How did you know it was him?”
    “I’ve seen him before. He flies with our squad sometimes.” Mitch flashed me a quick smile. “Glad I wasn’t on those flights. Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said as he shuffled some papers, cleared his desk, and logged off the computer. Mitch’s philosophy on “face time,” time spent in the presence of superiors, was less is better. He’d rather lie low and draw no attention to himself. “Less chance of screwing up when some colonel or general is watching,” he’d said.
    Tommy sat down and went right back to his argument with Georgia. “What about freedom of expression and all that? Don’t photographers have a right to take those pictures? I’ve got a right to look at them if I want, right?”
    Georgia didn’t look at him. Tommy winked at me. He argued to irritate Georgia. He was one of those people who thought making someone mad was better entertainment than a movie.
    “Sure, in your house,” Georgia retorted as she sat down at her desk and opened a file on her computer. “Doesn’t mean I have to look at them at work.”
    “You do here.”
    Georgia picked up her phone and punched numbers. “For now.”

    After a quick lunch with Mitch, I drove home, pushing the speed limit to reach our house before Livvy went to sleep in the Cherokee. Once she was asleep, even if it was for five minutes, that was it, no more naps for that day. I turned onto our street and crept through the scattering of pickups, vans, and cars in front of the Wilsons’ house. Our neighborhood of arts and crafts bungalows from the twenties and thirties had plenty of charm and character. Gorgeous maple and pine trees towered over the homes, each with its own special touches. But modern conveniences, like dishwashers and garage door openers, were in short supply. The Wilsons had tackled a complete modernization and had a different set of contractors and work crews clogging the street every day. I edged past an oversized shiny pickup, an ancient blue van with a mountain landscape painted on the side, a van labeled BUZZARD ELECTRIC , and a dented Ford Tempo. Finally, I pulled into the driveway in front of our basement garage.
    Despite the inconveniences, I loved our house. Its honey-colored brick looked cozy even on this cold day, and the graceful Tudor-inspired lines and the leaded glass gave it a uniqueness that we’d never find in modern track housing, or in base housing, either. Our house sat on a corner lot. The lot sloped down at the rear of the property and the builder had taken advantage of the drop. He’d burrowed into the slope to create a two-car attached garage on the basement level.
    With Livvy’s